


Silks

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7532479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had always loved his style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silks

“What do you think?” His lips were near her ear, a brush against her cheek. It wasn’t until he spoke that Sansa was fully conscious of what she was doing. Her hand had moved to the tie that hung between them, her fingers caressing the fine silk. 

She had been in awe of his clothing before she had even had him, the shine of the fabrics and lust colors. They fit him in such an exact way she was certain he had every piece tailored to his lean frame, the richness of the clothing accented by the cost of this luxury. Still Sansa was usually able to reign herself in around them, not allowing the materialistic part of her take hold, but now she had had too much wine. Her face was flush, her mind was spinning, and the feeling of the tie was simply too good to drop her hand. 

But she did look at him. In the dark his eyes were more grey then usual but still warm. His own drink had been darker than her’s but no less potent and she could feel the heat of his face filling the inches of space between them. His voice had been low, as if there was someone else in the room that could overhear, as if this wasn’t a moment meant for the two of them. 

“Sounds good.” She smiled, wider than she would have were it not for the drink. In truth she had barely heard him but it was best not to let that slip. She didn’t want to be thought of as a silly girl, especially after the night had gone so well. 

Petyr leaned back just a bit, casting his eyes down to watch the tie slip between her fingers. The fabric was green, meant to bring out his eyes, the touches of silver throughout giving the whole of his look a richer sheen. His suit had been grey with a slight pinstripe; the jacket had been discarded to the couch behind them, the vest undone with her eager fingers. 

He laughed at her non-response and reached out to take her hand, pausing her movement. “You like the tie, I take it?”

Sansa felt herself blush, shifting her eyes down in embarrassment, the weight of his gaze pressing on her. She had seen a hint of his teeth over his lips and it brought back a rush of sensory memories that, even now, caused her to feel some slight bit of shame. 

(Petyr had assured her that would grow less and less painful as they went on. She could not wait to kill it entirely). 

“What have you thought about it?” It was not a question she expected and she rose to meet his gaze again, lips parting slightly in confusion. 

Petyr took that as a cue, pulling away from her fully to remove it from his neck. The weight of him had been a comfort, a support, and she found herself leaning forward, unsteady, when it was taken from her. 

“Would you like to wear it?” There was a flash in his eye then, a lift of his mouth, that told her that it was not as straight-forward of a question as it looked. She felt her stomach clench in anticipation, her body coil with need. 

(In the morning, she would question, yet again, why she let him do these things to her).

He reached down to take her hand, leading her through the apartment with an even step. The silk hung between them, a pressing reminder of what was about to happen, though in truth she she could only guess. 

Petyr’s bedroom was as richly furnished as he was dressed, Dark wood and deep colors, king-sized bed, a comfort to her from the first time she had seen it. The light was no brighter here but she did not need it, for she knew her way around. 

Petyr moved to the back of her dress and without a word he striped her, leaving her in the La Perla set he had gifted her with (how she wished to show it off without being asked how she afforded it!) his fingers grazing her skin. Sansa leaned back to enjoy the feel of him but she was only granted this for a moment. Soon enough silk slipped around her wrist, tight, and the other one was pulled forward to join it behind her back. 

She turned to look at him, startled, but did not stop him. Petyr seemed to find her expression amusing, but the humor in his eyes was quickly being replaced with the bare need she so often saw. 

“No hands tonight.” He spoke as if it was a concept she should have already been familiar with. Sansa squirmed against the knotted tie, the spot between her legs already screaming hew desire, the blood in her face a seemingly permanent smear. 

“Petyr…” Her voice was soft and she could not quite hide the want in it. She swallowed and followed him to the bed on steady feet. 

Once there he pulled her close to take her lips. She could taste the lingering ashes of his cigarettes, the mint he used to hide it, and the desperation that ran throughout his blood. She could feel him, straining against her. She felt light, an odd sense of power rushing through her as she kissed him back, as she opened her mouth to him. 

Softly he pressed her down on the bed until she was laying on her chest. His fingers worked themselves under the silk of her panties, tugging them sharply and obscenely down her hips. 

“Are you going to be a good girl tonight?” His voice was thick. The pads of his fingers danced over her wet lips and she cried out softy, bucking against him, already knowing he would use her bound state to tease her to madness. 

She nodded. What else could she do?

She heard him unbuckle his belt as he continued to play with her, wetting his fingers and sliding them in and out just a bit, enough to make her squirm. He loved her like this, open and wanting, a little whore under his hand. 

When he was ready his other hand reached up to tug at her bound hands, pulling her back until he buried himself in her with a grunt. She was still tight, even months after he had her for the first time, and she knew he loved this moment, this breaking and entering of the flesh. 

“You don’t seem good.” His words were a purr, his hand remaining on the tie while the other griped her hip. She groaned under him, hating the stockings and bra that kept her from being bare for him, that warmed her skin even more. She knew she must look like an obscene mess to him, undone in such a way, and knew that he relished it. 

Just as she knew he would relish the burns on her wrists come morning. 

For some reason she could not blame him. 


End file.
